Burning Love in a Modern Age

My lover's breath falls short of a lime; candied apples sat onto my knees; if molten gold were a valuable delicacy; then he were a cultural staple; I crave to feel his words sting my ears; I bow in the act of submission; fleeting into my heart's mind he wrapped his sword with my flesh lace; if his desires were to burrow a birds head, then my dream is to be it's home; If roots build foundation, then fruits promise golden sunsets, for thou invade my thoughts before the sun 'twas born; My lover is a beastly poem, in which rages it's claws into my fantasies; I take pleasure with a bit more pain, for I remembered the emptiness gained from he not loving I as intensely once before; if a flower wilts then he surely would still love, for my lover is a beastly poem and I; a white dove.